hushed shuffles

Things move behind me in hushed shuffles of productivity.

Me equals silent and still, unbending, steely weal.

A pinch of sadness found in frustration.

The loneliness of a crowd.

The wrought iron twists.

Two.

Eighteen dancing slips slide behind a single veil.

Nothing from nothing yielding some~things,

yet, remain unspeaking.

Starshine seen that died already.

And, I feel your shame.

Pride comingling with this being.

I miss my Funk and Wagners more than necessary.

Divination by dictionary.

Play things never put away.

Immaturity extracts blood from the stone.

Holed up in worry so much so a hole in the head could incorrectly~seem to be more becoming.

Faded and dusty.

I miss the mark.

Even my writing hardly starts.

Cold heat unseemly, waiting for skin to begin slowly peeling.

Too dark to share; too scared to hear.

Intimidation of trying shines in thine eyes.